


Almost

by Imjohnlocked87, RRipley



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angry John Watson, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Caring John Watson, Case Fic, Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Protective Mycroft, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Resilience, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock's Past, Top John Watson, reassuring sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-08 08:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjohnlocked87/pseuds/Imjohnlocked87, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RRipley/pseuds/RRipley
Summary: During a case, Sherlock realizes that John was acting weird. Lestrade explained him that John feels insecure about their relationship, and Sherlock decides to publicly expose his feelings for the doctor.The way he does it attracks the attention of someone from Sherlock's past, someone who almost shattered the detective both physical and emotionally.Almost._________Please be aware of the tags,  Some scenes, mainly in chapter five,  may be a trigger.___________
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 154





	1. What's the matter with John?

Sherlock burst in Lestrade’s office. The DI rose his head from the papers to look at him, reproachfully.

“Being so clever, why don’t you learn to knock at doors?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and bent over Greg’s table, his fists leaning on it and looked fixedly to Greg.

“What’s the matter with John?”

The DI looked at him, surprised.

“I don’t know, what is the matter with him?”

“Come on, Lestrade. You both talk a lot in your… pint nights. He is behaving differently lately and I’m sure you know why”.

“I haven’t seen him acting different”.

Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes scanning Lestrade’s face.

“You know it”.

“Sherlock, this is silly. John is not acting weird. It’s all in your mind”.

“Don’t insult my intelligence. He hasn’t come with me to the last two cases’ press conferences. When journalists jump over us with their stupid questions, he doesn’t respond to anything to them as he used to do. When they are taking photographs of us, he simply disappears or turns himself over”.

“You have nothing to worry about, Sherlock”.

“Greg, please”.

Lestrade was about to mock Sherlock for remembering his name and begging in the same sentence but he bit his tongue while looking at the detective’s eyes. He was worried. Truly worried.

“He is fed up with me, isn’t he? Or maybe he…’

“Look Sherlock” cut the DI “I don’t know how to say this to you…”

Sherlock flinched, almost unperceptively, but flinched, closing his eyes, getting ready for the blow.

“It’s only that… being your boyfriend it’s not easy”.

Sherlock lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hands. The moment he has been feared since he and John started a relationship had arrived. John was going to quit him.

“So he finally realized I’m not enough for him”.

“Yes. What? No! What the hell are you saying?”

Sherlock dropped on a chair.

“I knew it. I knew this will happen”.

“Sherlock…”

“I was sure that, someday, he would realize he could have anyone he wanted, who he deserved, not the fucking freak…”

“Sherlock, shut up!”

Lestrade’s yelp made the whole department remained silent. All the heads turned to the DI office, accompanied by mischievous smiles and whispers. Finally, the freak was getting what he deserved.

Greg lowered his tone.

“He is not going to leave you. He hasn’t met anybody. He loves you madly. Only …”

“Greg, for goodness sake!”

“As I said, it’s not easy to be your boyfriend. And I’m not talking about your childish behaviour, yes, it's childish most of the time” he insisted when the detective pouted “It’s… look at you. You are the super only consulting detective in the world. You are the genius, the cool guy who solves crimes in the twinkling of an eye, no matter how complicated they are. Apart from that, you are handsome, tall, mysterious, elegant, rich, posh…, even your hair is great, not to speak of your suits, coat, and, of course, your voice. It’s like if Nature had decided to make an extra bonus, and created you”.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, agape.

“But... but John is clever, brave and handsome and I couldn’t solve as many crimes as I do without him. He is my conductor of light. He is kind, goodhearted and funny. True that he wears those hideous jumpers, but people  _ adore _ him”.

Lestrade smiled, regretting not having a recording.

“I can do the things I do because he is with me because he loves me…, I didn’t realize…Is… Is it my fault?”

Lestrade shook his head. 

“Why do you think you are a freak?”

For the first time in his life, Sherlock didn’t follow Lestrade’s reasoning. Wondering what that question had to do with their conversation, he frowned at the insult. In Greg’s mouth, it sounded really hurtful.

“Is that why John is going to leave me? Because I’m a freak?”

“I just told you he is not going to leave you. What I mean is, did you think of yourself as a freak before people started calling it to you?”

The detective shook his head, biting his lower lip.

“No” his voice a sad whisper. “I simply thought I was… different. Until everyone around me started calling me… that”.

Lestrade smiled, comforting.

“With John is the same. He knows that, when people look at both of you, they are wondering why a guy like you is with someone like him”.

“People are idiots. They don’t understand a shit. They don’t know him”.

“Yes, I know, but, when you hear the same thing once, and again, and again…”

“You end up believing what they say is true” Sherlock whispered, almost inaudible, felling his eyes sting with tears. He gulped, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

He gulped a couple of times more, breathing deeply, trying to regain control of himself.

He stood, looking fiercely to Lestrade.

“I won’t allow people to hurt John as…”  _ they did with me _ , the unspoken words floating in the space between them.

“I’m afraid there is nothing you can do to prevent it,” the DI said, in a sad tone.

“Thanks, Greg”.

Sherlock left his office, rushing between the Yards and disappearing in the elevator.

*******

John woke up and stretched out his arms, noticing that Sherlock’s side of the bed was empty. He put on his dressing-gown and went to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. He looked at Sherlock, who was lying on the couch, his eyes closed, joined hands with his index fingers under his chin. He was thinking or lost in his Mental Palace, so he decided not to bother him.

John sighed. This case had proven to be more complicated than it seemed at the beginning. Initially, a deficient electrical system that resulted in a short-circuit that produced a fire. Sadly, none of the four family members, parents and two children, were able to escape from fire. At least this was the scene Anderson drew until Sherlock deduced that the fire hadn’t been accidental, but intentional, with the aim of masking a quadruple murder. They had been poisoned, though they haven’t established how.

But the fire erased almost all the pieces of evidence, and though Sherlock had been the last three days working on them, he hadn’t been successful at finding anything useful to solve the case.

Anyway, he made two cups of tea and left one of them on the coffee table along with a couple of chocolate biscuits, with the futile hope of Sherlock eating them when he went back from his mental trip.

He drunk his tea, took a shower, gave Sherlock a quick kiss on his lips and rushed towards the practice, hoping he wouldn’t have an endless list of patients waiting for him.

But it was longer than usual, so when he went back to the flat he was exhausted and worried because he hadn't received any phone messages from Sherlock, which never was good news. So he walked the distance between the tube and Baker Street wondering what disaster had Sherlock organized.

When he finally arrived, the flat smelt delicious, and he found Sherlock distributing a steak & ale pie in two plates. Well, maybe distributing wasn’t the more accurate word, since one of the plates bustled with pie while the other only had a tiny portion of it. John looked at Sherlock, astonished.

“Did you cook that?”

Sherlock threw at him his “please, don’t be an idiot” look but smiled fondly.

“Mrs. Hudson decided that we should have a proper dinner, so she cooked this… thing for us”.

“This thing?” laughed John “I hope you thanked her for this”.

Sherlock looked a bit guilty for a second.

“I thought it was better to try it before”.

“You are impossible”.

They both had dinner (Sherlock even served himself a second time, for John’s joy) and then watched a bad telly program, Sherlock resting his head on John’s lap, while the doctor massaged his scalp, playing with his hair. He loved it when they can be that way, not the detective and the doctor, but simply Sherlock and him, without anybody to judge them. In moments like that, he was the happiest man on Earth, his insecurities subdued by the certainty of Sherlock’s love for him. 

He bent and kissed Sherlock deeply, his tongue playing with the detective’s one. He broke the kiss and nibbled Sherlock’s neck, getting a soft moan.

Sherlock held the doctor’s head between his hands.

“Could we just cuddle?”

John looked at him, a bit disappointed, but the detective looked tired and thoughtful, so he nodded. Sherlock sat, resting his head on John’s chest and sighed contently, as the doctor embraced him, kissing his head softly. Sherlock should be worried by the case, that it could become one of the few unsolved, something very hard to accept for him. 

“Go to bed,” said Sherlock softly after a while, when John yawned. “I need to finish some experiments”. John nodded, knowing that arguing with him about the importance of sleep would be wasted time until the case ends.

“Fine, good night, love”. Sherlock gave him a good night kiss and went back to his Mental Palace.

The next morning, when John woke up, Sherlock was getting dressed, in a black suit and dark blue shirt.

“I have to go to Scotland Yard to look for some files” he explained.

“Why don’t you ask Lestrade to bring them to you?

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“They are cold cases. None of the Yards would be able to find them”. 

John chuckled.

“I’m sure they haven’t realized yet that you organized the cold cases according to your own system”.

Sherlock smirked.

“They don’t have a clue. Don’t forget the briefing”.

John snapped his tongue. He hated briefings and hoped that Sherlock had forgotten about it, which was complete nonsense, since Sherlock never forgot anything, except all that he willingly deleted from his Mind Palace.

“You must come, John” Sherlock’s voice a mix of an order and a begging.

“See you there. Try to sleep something, ok?

Sherlock smiled and run through the flat towards the stairs. John had his breakfast and then went to the practice.


	2. An extraordinary man

“You look worried,” said Lestrade, approaching John. “He only needs resting”.

Both of them looked at Sherlock, who had joined four chairs of the last row of the briefing room and, ignoring the rest of the world, was sleeping as quietly as if he were in his bedroom at Baker Street. Well, actually, it was John who joined the chairs and forced the exhausted detective to catch a bit of sleep before keeping on with the case.

“I was going to have a beer. Do you want to join me?” asked Lestrade.

John nodded and both men left Scotland Yard and entered a nearby bar where the Yards used to go.

They both asked for two beers and sipped their drinks in comfortable silence.

Donovan, Anderson and several other officers joined them.

The waiter approached with more drinks. She knew all of them enough to don’t have to ask for what they were going to drink.

“Are you fine, Doctor Watson?” she asked, worried.

“What? Oh, yes, only a bit tired, thanks Laura”

“You are doing a great job catching that murder”.

“Sherlock is doing a great job catching him”.

“Oh, come on, Doctor, don’t be so modest”.

John raised his eyebrows, surprised by Laura’s playful tone.

“Modest?” he repeated.

She nodded vehemently.

“I don’t know what you mean”

She laughed hard.

“Come on Doctor, don’t tease me. As if you didn’t know”.

“Know what?” John started to fill a bit tired of that complete nonsense.

“Your blog. Mr. Holmes article”

“Sherlock? My blog?”

Donovan quickly took her phone and searched for John’s blog.

“She’s is right. The freak has written something in your blog _ ” _ she said as the rest of them approached, trying to catch a glance of the screen, but Sally covered it with her hand. She didn’t want to lose the scoop.

“You shouldn’t be calling him that” rebuked the waiter, annoyed. Donovan looked at her, defiant, and she turned to John. “Really you didn’t know about it? It’s your blog.

“I am a bit busy chasing a murderer, working and so” sneered John. He was tired of people questioning him.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to bother you. But… this article is the talk of the town, and since it’s about you…”

“The freak wrote something about you in your blog?” Anderson laughed.

“The talk of the town?” asked John, now frankly worried.

Tremble, John, tremble” mocked Lestrade.

John frowned, angry. Sherlock perfectly knew that HE was the only one allowed to write on HIS blog. He couldn’t help feel a bit outraged. The detective had no right to touch HIS blog.

“Read it out!” asked one of the officers and the others supported him.

Donovan theatrically cleared her throat several times, making them laugh and started reading out:

“ _ An extraordinary man, by Sherlock Holmes _ ”

“He forgot to write “I am” mocked Donovan and anyone clapped “egocentric freak…”

“Sally!” warned John.

She ignored him and kept on reading out:

“ _ As the world seems to be full of idiots unable to see further than their noses…” _

Lestrade chuckled as John covered his eyes with his right hand and shook his head, shocked. He wasn’t sure about wanting to hear the rest.

“… _ I must clarify something that, at this point, I thought was obvious for anyone, even for those with a lower than an average intelligence: _

_ In the relationship between Doctor Watson and me, I am the lucky one _ ”.

John’s jaw dropped. He knew Sherlock felt that way since the detective has told him a lot of times, but he never thought he would say it to the world. Lestrade smirked. The rest stopped giggling, now intrigued.

“ _ I have led a solitary life. For as long as I can remember, my brain and my way of being have been found scaring, insulting or insufferable for anyone around me. I was (and still am) the freak, the weirdo, the psychopath, the geek, the aberration… Whatever similar insult you are _ _ able to think of, be sure I’ve been called it. I have been beaten, loathed, insulted, denigrated, humiliated, bullied and shunned for being who I am. _

Sally’s voice faded out while reading the last words, her mocking tone totally vanished. Abashed, she lent the phone to Lestrade, who kept on reading.

_ “But all of this changed when I met John Watson.  _

_ He didn’t feel scared or attacked by my intelligence, which says a lot of his own cleverness. He was the first person who had the patience of showing me that some things (alright, most of the things)1 I said or did weren’t a bit good, but he didn’t judge or rejected me for that.  _

_ He has been the only one capable of looking beyond the high functional sociopath and see the real me. He was able to read me with the same easiness I can read others. And that terrified me, since the only person to whom I had opened myself before, almost destroyed me, both physical and emotionally.  _

_ John did the precise opposite.  _

_ John showed me I was able to love. I fell in love with him the same day I met him at St. Bart’s. I’ve never had the courage to confess it to him since I knew nobody in his right mind would never love me back, as I had been told my whole life.  _

_ He helped me to heal my broken parts. Because of him, I stopped considering myself an abhorrent nature’s mistake. For the first time in my life, I was able to look at me and see who I really was and not what I’ve always been told that I was.  _

_ And the most important of all is that every day for eight months, John lets me know that, even with all my flaws, contradictions, failures and failings, I am worth to be loved. And God knows to love me it’s everything but easy or smooth 2.  _

_ So next time you see this apparently ordinary man, be not deceived for appearances. He is extraordinary. A truly extraordinary, wise and brave man with a gigantic heart. And I’m lucky because, for any reason beyond my own comprehension, he decided to share his life with me.  _

_ SH _

_ P.S.: As for opening my heart is not my area, I asked Mrs. Hudson to help me to put in words my feelings. In return, she obliged me to write clarifications 1 and 2, which I find totally unnecessary, but she is the most stubborn person I have met in my whole life (yes, you are, don’t roll your eyes that way).  _

_ _

_ P.S.2: Comments are disabled both here on the web and in the real world (except for John, of course). For you, Mycroft, they are not disabled. They are banned.  _

_ _ John chuckled, his eyes filled with tears.

“Sentimental bastard” he muttered, overwhelmed.

They all were speechless.

John, though knew how madly Sherlock was in love with him, never thought the detective would expose those feelings to the rest of the world like this.

Lestrade felt guilty. He should have prevented Donovan, Anderson and the rest of the officers from insulting Sherlock like they have been doing since the day the detective started working with them. He believed Sherlock when he said that it didn’t bother him, but now it was obvious that was not the truth.

Sally, Anderson and the rest felt miserable. They just realized they had been bullying him. They always thought insulting him was funny and didn’t think this could hurt Sherlock’s feelings since he didn’t seem to have any of them. But, obviously, he had. 

“I have to take a certain consulting detective home to improve his… self-esteem” said John standing from his chair.

Lestrade chuckled, a hit of sadness in his laugh. He patted the doctor’s shoulder and both of them returned to Scotland Yard, followed by a silent and miserable group.

In the briefing room, John kissed Sherlock to wake him up. The detective kissed him back, smiling, totally oblivious about where they were. When both parted to catch their breath, the detective looked at Lestrade at the others that, behind them, stared at Sherlock with a sheepish face. Blushing, the detective jumped on his feet and, followed by an amused John, left the briefing room as fast as he could.


	3. He had a prey to finish

The chair squeaked when the man heavily dropped on it. He sighed and rubbed his face, tired. The bloke was tough and it hadn't been easy to break him. But, in the end, he achieved it. He always did.

His secret? He enjoyed it. He loved the panic in the defenseless victim’s eyes. their cries of pain and agony. The power he got over his victims gave him an animalistic pleasure, almost orgasmic.

He was not a professional torturer. He could be, and a really good one. The best. But finding his victim restrained and ready to be tortured would be like feeding a wild tiger with a goat tied to a tree.

Boring.

He was a predator. He enjoyed the hunting and all that it involved. Looking for the perfect victim was easy for him. He could smell them. Once he found his prey, he stalked it to, finally, pounce over it and getting his prize. 

He switched on a yellow light and opened the refrigerator, pulled out some pack of frozen food that threw it into the microwave.

The kitchen was small and old, but the place was perfect. Just what he was looking for. A sound-proof basement. That was the best part. Gagging his victims gave them the hope that shouting could free them, so they got fussy. Across the years he learnt that it was worse to let preys cry and shout and much as they wanted until they realized that it was futile, that they were at his total mercy.

He had been busy getting ready the basement for his next pray. He hasn’t chosen it yet, but he will soon do. The poor devil that agonized in the basement was just a guinea pig.

He didn’t kill all his victims. But the ones who remained alive had no better luck. In fact, what he did to the good prays was even more sadistic than killing them. He marked their victims for life. When he freed them, they were both physical and emotionally ruined, but not in a visible way. He ruined their inner self. Forever. Without redemption.

He took the package out from the microwave, some kind of indefinable Italian food. He switched on the computer to check his mail. When he opened it, appeared a news section, with some photographs of current topics.

He fixed his gaze in one of the photos and clicked on it, smiling and licking his lips, like a lion cleaning the blood after devouring his prey.

He hadn’t forgotten him. Who could? Verdiblue eyes, sharp cheekbones, curled black hair, that wonderful Cupid’s bow …. He was as slim as he was when he met him, maybe a bit more corpulent. Fifteen years had passed since he saw him for the last time.

The great detective, he read. He snorted. He wasn’t so great when he met the brunette at the University. He was so needed for affection… it was so easy to trick him…, breaking him was harder, but so delightful…

A shiver of pleasure went through his body, remembering the feeling of that perfect and hot mouth around his cock, how great was fucking that arse, how absolutely perfect was watching that mouth and arse being fucked, hearing him cry, scream and begging, but not in pleasure.

Undoubtedly, his best prey ever. He had never found anyone comparable to him.

But after totally shattering his preys, there was no fun in play with them again.

He clicked again on the photo to make it bigger and a link opened in another window. Something written by the detective in a Doctor's blog. The man raised even more the left corner of his mouth when started reading the article, a corny stupidity addressed to…

_ Almost. _

The word hit him with the force of a lorry at full speed.

He read it again, his fists clenched so tight that he could hear his knuckles creak.

_ Almost _ .

“ _ Almost destroyed me, both physical and emotionally”.  _

He never “almost” wrecked his preys. He total and absolutely ruined them. Forever.

But that prat dared to say he “almost” destroyed him.

He cracked a wolfish smile.

He had prey to finish. And this time, not only in a metaphorical way.


	4. Asking Sherlock

Greg jumped on the bed next to Mycroft, took the phone off the older Holmes’s hands and kissed him passionately. Mycroft let out a soft moan.

“You are not waiting for a declaration of love on the web like my little brother’s one, aren’t you?” asked Mycroft, his lips caressing Lestrade’s.

“Of course not. I know you have your heart locked in a chest and buried in some secret chamber” mocked the DI without breaking the kiss, managing to have Mycroft laying on his back.

“Fortunately for you, I’ve only buried my heart” Mycroft retorted, lifting his hips, so their erections rubbed together through their pants, making them both groan.

Greg chuckled in Mycroft’s lips.

“So do you have anything appealing to me? I wonder what it could be. Maybe this?” Lestrade kissed Mycroft’s neck from the chin to the collarbone, making him giggle and gasp.

“You have also a hidden first love?” Lestrade traced with his tongue the other man's chest, almost reaching his right nipple, as Mycroft grabbed Lestrade's hair, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.

“Hmmmm?”

“Evasive answer, interesting. I’ll make you confess, then” he said, circling the nipple with his tongue.

“Go down and I’ll confess you everything”.

Lestrade moved his tongue to the left nipple as his hand run down towards Mycroft’s already hard cock, softly caressing the length of the shaft up and down with his fingers and rubbing a thumb over the head.

“So?” he asked.

“I just forgot the question” Mycroft panted, kissing Lestrade’s neck, making the DI shiver and chuckle.

“I’ve asked if you also had a first secret love, like Sherlock”.

“Doctor Watson is Sherlock’s first love” moaned the older Holmes, caressing Lestrade’s back with his thumbs from the waist to the shoulders, creating goosebumps in his path, making Greg shiver.

“Nope, there was one before him. Apparently, it ended badly”.

Mycroft snapped his eyes open, all trace of lust erased from them, and looked fixedly to Lestrade. The DI sighed. In more than one of their “pint nights”, John and him had complained about the Holmes being the only men in the world capable of freely getting the blood back from their cocks to their brains.

“I’m telling you Sherlock hasn’t had any boyfriend before John”.

“And I’m telling you that he talked about him in his post”.

Mycroft scowled and retrieved his phone, looking for the post and focused in one sentence:

“ _ Almost destroyed me, both physical and emotionally”.  _

“If he would have had a boyfriend that hurt him, I would have known it”.

“Are you saying you didn’t have a clue about Sherlock’s secret love?”

“Impossible”.

“Improbable. It’s possible since it happened.”

Mycroft jumped from the bed.

“Where are you going? It’s three in the morning”.

“Sherlock will be awake”.

“Yes, he will, but John and Mrs. Hudson won’t. And as I can imagine how the conversation between you two will go, I forbid you to go to Baker Street now”.

“You what?” Mycroft squeaked.

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” Lestrade said, firmly.

“I don’t have to…” he froze when Greg handcuffed him to one of the bedposts. “You could be flogged for this” he hissed.

Greg chortled.

“I love how old-fashioned you are. And if it’s you who whips me, I wouldn’t mind trying”.

“So you’d like it?” a sparkle of lust twinkled in Mycroft’s eyes.

“Of course, you dressed in black leather, punishing me for being a naughty boy…”

“You have already been a naughty boy” with a quick movement Mycroft freed himself from the handcuffs and closed them around Greg's hands before he even realized what was happening.

Mycroft showed a smug smile.

“My little brother is not the only one skilled with your handcuffs”. He started getting dressed.

“Mycroft, please, listen to me. Don’t go there now”.

“You are so sweet when you scowl...”

Mycroft’s phone rang. He answered it and said “yes”.

“It seems it’s not only me who thinks it’s a proper time to talk about this. John Watson is at the door”.

“Lucky bastard. Come on, release the handcuffs”.

“You should learn to do it by yourself”.

“I hate both Holmes”.

Mycroft sniggered but Greg could see a hint of worry in his eyes as he released him.

Soon the three men were sat in the spacious living room with a cup of tea.

“I’m sorry for the time, but I couldn’t sleep”.

“I assume my little brother doesn’t know you are here”.

John nodded.

“He is at St. Bart making I don’t know which test”. I want to know everything you can tell me about Sherlock’s first relationship or whatever it was”.

Mycroft breathed deep.

“I’m afraid I cannot help you this time, Doctor Watson”.

“Because it’s a family private matter?” John hissed. 

“No, because… I don’t know anything about it”.

“You are kidding”

“I haven’t been always been the… British Government, as you like to say. Have you asked Sherlock about him?

John nodded.

“He just said it was a boy he fancied. When I asked about being destroyed physically and emotionally Sherlock explained he wrote it to give the post more dramatism, you know, being a drama queen and so. He added he had deleted all in his Mind Palace and everything was fine”.

“Maybe it was just a crush” conceded Lestrade doubtfully, moving his head from side to side.

“Yes, but he was very evasive while answering. He tried to change the topic after every question and finally got a bit angry. It’s not the usual reaction for a university love affair”. 

Mycroft stiffened.

“A university love affair?” he repeated, slowly.

“That what Sherlock said, I mean, he said he met that bloke at the Uni”.

Mycroft closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Sherlock quitted the University when he only needed to pass two exams to get two degrees, one in Chemistry and other in Criminology. Two months later, he was using drugs. Two weeks after starting, he overdosed the first time.

“Do you think it could be related to that man?” asked John. He was going to skin that arsehole alive.

“Maybe. What’s his name?” asked Mycroft.

“Sherlock didn’t tell me. He said he was nobody”.

“And I suppose there were no more details”.

John shook his head.

“As I said, he was quite evasive, though I noticed he forced himself to sound nonchalantly”.

Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

“Anyway, I'll find that bastard and check him,” he said, his tone cold, his grey eyes flaming “and God helps him if he dared to hurt my brother”.

“And how are you going to do that?”

“Asking Sherlock”.


	5. My worst mistake ever

Sherlock looked through the window and sighed, wondering if he had blundered, but quickly discarded the thought. Anyway, the die was cast. 

He lied down on the couch, closed his eyes and put his fingers under his chin, entering in his Mind Palace.

He didn’t tell John the truth. He didn’t delete it. He couldn’t, in spite of all his efforts. Not even with drugs. So he decided to bury it, as deep as he could.

The detective wasn’t sure about what would happen after opening it. It took him a lot of time to achieve locking it, and it had been that way for almost fifteen years.

Sherlock climbed down the circular stairs, going down and down, until reaching the darkest and deepest part of the palace. There, next to Moriarty’s dungeon, was another room with a black door without any trace on it. He opened it, slowly, mustering the courage to cross it. Inside, the room was cold, as cold as the death, making the mist coming from his mouth. He shivered. His heart pounded hard inside his chest, and he struggled to hold the panic back.

Sherlock walked a couple of steps, and, with effort, moved a heavy black stone. Then he knelt down, next to a trapdoor in the floor. His hand trembled while pressing the keys with the combination and got the trapdoor opened. Inside, there was only a black box, a very little one, considering it stored the Hell inside.

It hadn’t always been so little. There was a time, fifteen years ago, when the content of the box filled all his Mind Palace, running through his brain restlessly. Somehow, he managed to confine it to several rooms and, after meeting John, he could put the load inside a box, which was getting smaller each year. But he could never break free from it completely. It would accompany him until death.

The detective almost couldn’t breathe when took the box out of the room and climbed the stairs up with it. In its path, everything in his Mind Palace became darkened.

He looked at the doors of John’s wing. He bit his upper lip and lowered his head, drowning out a sob. Maybe today they will get closed forever.

Sherlock left the box in a little table near the Mind Palace’s door, so he could pick it easily. He hadn’t the courage to open it being alone. He couldn’t let him be defeated for its content again. 

He hadn’t gone to St. Barts, as he told John. He hoped that, somehow, John let pass the reference about being wrecked in his blog. But deep in his heart, he knew John wouldn’t, he wished that John wouldn’t. And, magnificent John, he didn’t.

Anyway, he tried to change the doctor’s mind, made him believe everything was fine. Sherlock didn’t want to hurt him. And he knew this will do.

So he pretended to go to the lab. He knew John will go to talk with Mycroft. He smiled sadly. It was three in the morning, but, for Sherlock, the doctor didn’t care if he had to drag the British Government out of his bed.

Sherlock checked his watch and sat on his chair, staring vacantly, holding his breath, waiting for the hell to be unleashed.

The door shrieked a bit when was opened and closed after the three men. They stopped, looking at Sherlock’s figure, half-hidden in the darkness, sitting in his leather armchair.

“I’d prefer you to stay in there” the baritone tone contained a hint of plea on it. “I wouldn’t be able to do this looking at you”.

The blonde one moved to enter the living-room, to comfort the man, to rescue him from his sorrow and loneliness, but was stopped by a pale hand’s gesture.

“Please” prayed the detective.

So they sat and wait.

“I only ask you to not interrupt me. If you do, I won’t be able to start again”.

They nodded, silently, a bit shocked. None of them had seen the detective so terrified, never heard him sounding so vulnerable.

Sherlock closed his eyes, entered in his Mind Palace and took the box, slowly opening it.

“I met Sebastian at the University. He was five years older than me and was studying for a postgraduate degree. I was being beaten by some blokes of the rugby team and he compelled them to stop and leave me alone. He dressed my wounds and took me to have some tea. It was the first time since primary school that someone helped me when I was being bullied.

After that, he started meeting me at the library. He was interested in what I was studying, he actually listened to me when I talked, he even could stand being with me. Sebastian also made the bullying stop. He practiced boxing, he was tall and strong, so nobody dared to bother me since then, no matter if he was with me or not”.

“We talked during hours about my university subjects, he even helped me with my Chemistry experiments. Sebastian took me out to restaurants, to the theatre when there was a play I liked, to chemistry conferences, to violin concerts… he did anything to please me. He was nice, comprehensive, caring… they were the best six months of my life until then. 

But when I looked at him, I knew something wasn’t right. There was something I couldn’t properly read on him, but I convinced myself that all it was in my imagination. I couldn’t lose the only person who seemed to like me, to love me.

I had been studying hard for my final exams. Two more and I’d achieve both degrees. He told me that I needed a rest and that he had rented a cottage for the weekend, so we could disconnect from everything, rest and have time for us. I accepted and we went there. The place was beautiful and isolated. Perfect for a romantic weekend. I was overwhelmed about how he cared for me. I didn’t know then that, since the beginning, he was just throwing the bait, a bait that I, like a complete idiot, swallowed all the way down. 

We never had proper sex, in the sense of penetration. He always said that he was waiting for me to be ready for it. Instead, he loved when I sucked his cock, and, no matter where we were, he made me kneel down and shoved his cock in my mouth, so I could suck it. He did that in cabs, in restaurants, in alleys and even in his office at the university. He never reciprocated, but I didn’t mind, even when I found the situation humiliating. I enjoyed giving him pleasure, thanking him for understanding me the way he did. 

The next morning in the cottage, when I woke up, he was at my side with some ropes and a blindfold in his hands. We had practiced bondage before and, though I didn’t enjoy it very much, I knew he did. He kissed me softly and said that he wanted to try something new he was sure I would like.

I wasn't sure. As I said, he had tied me up before and it was bearable but, that morning, I could feel something indecipherable in him.

He told me it would help me to improve my trust in him, that I had nothing to fear, that we would stop the moment I wanted.

And, for once, I decided to fully trust in another human being.

My worst mistake ever.

_ I felt him check the bounds to be sure I couldn’t get myself free from them and get assured the blindfold was correctly placed. Then he left the bedroom and, after a while he came back and caressed me. _

_ I jumped. Those weren’t Sebastian’s hands. _

_ I kicked frantically, trying to apart those hands from me, calling Sebastian, straining the ropes with all my strength, trying to free myself from the repulsive touch. _

_ The hands left my body. _

_ “I don’t want him to touch me again” I protested. _

_ “Shhhhh” shushed Sebastian in my ear, trying to calm me. “Don’t worry. Just give me a minute”. _

_ Both men left the room. My mind was racing at full speed with panic. I heard Sebastian’s footsteps entering the room again. _

_ “Thanks, I …” _

_ I froze at the blow that impacted my face. The fist punched me several times more, cracking my nose, broking my lips, swollen my eyes. My brain couldn’t process what was happening. I felt the taste of blood in my mouth. _

_ “Do you think you have any choice here?” Sebastian cried infuriated “I want to see how he fucks you and there's nothing you can do to avoid it" _

_ He cupped my jaw and pressed his fingers hard on the flesh. _

_ “Now he'll enter again and he is going to do whatever he wants with you. Do you understand?” _

_ I gulped, shocked. My mind was dizzy with the strokes. Sebastian grabbed my hair and hit me again. I felt the fear invading me. _

_ “I asked you a question. Do you understand?” _

_ “Yes,” I whispered, terrified and shocked. _

_ But, no, I didn’t. I wasn’t able to understand what was going on, at what kind of play Sebastian was playing. _

_ The door got open again. _

_ “Sebastian, please” I begged, tears rolling down my cheeks “please, no, no, no, don’t let him…” _

_ The man raped me. I pulled frantically at the ropes, screaming for the pain, begging him to stop, but I only got chuckles from Sebastian as all response. _

_ When the man left the room, I was sobbing. I felt betrayed, deceived, confused, hurt and stupid. A complete stupid. My mind retrieved all the moments I thought Sebastian wasn’t what he pretended to be, all that signals I decided to ignore. But, I thought, I truly thought… _

_ “I thought…” I couldn't’ help verbalize it as the sadness drowned me. _

_ Sebastian chuckled darkly. _

_ “What? That I liked you? That I loved you?” I flinched at the disdain in Sebastian’s voice. He sounded completely different from the caring and understanding Sebastian I knew until then. “It was so easy to trick you…, poor lonely boy looking for crumbs of affection, dying for someone who wanted to be at your side, for someone who could stand you… always presuming of how clever you are, and look at you right now. You may be clever, but sentiments are your weakness”. _

_ “Just let me go” I begged him “Please, let me go, I won't...”. _

_ “Do you really think this is over? This was only a private showing for me. A hint of what’s about to come for you. But next act requires a different stage and more players” he said, as two pairs of hands untied me and dragged me out of the bed, down the stairs until the house basement, while I struggled pointlessly to free myself, begging them to liberate me. _

_ They both bent my face down over a table. One of them took out my blindfold. I chocked in panic. I was tightly restrained by the arms for two men, that kept me bent, but I could feel the presence of several more behind me. _

_ They all raped me, fucking my mouth and arse at the same time. Sebastian also made me come over and over, knowing it would humiliate me even more than the rape itself. _

_ At any moment, I fainted. _

_ When I regained consciousness, they had stopped fucking me, but where still around me, waiting like hyenas. I was laying on the table, exhausted and sore. Sebastian looked at me, a sadistic smile in his face. He put a sandwich near me. _

_ “Eat. I don’t want you to faint again. They don’t like fucking dolls”. _

_ I shook my head. I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to die. _

_ “Eat”. _

_ I didn’t move. Due to exhaustion, but moreover, for the rage I felt towards Sebastian, the loath towards myself. _

_ The older man growled threateningly and shoved the sandwich in my mouth, inflamed for the fucking. All I could taste was semen. _

_ “Don’t dare to spit it, or I’ll break your jaw”. _

_ I swallowed. Looking at Sebastian, I saw in him what I didn’t see at first: coldness, hate, anger, frustration, resentment, and a taste for killing. A predator. I could read him so easily now…, I felt so guilty, so stupid and so broken like I never had before. _

_ I was endlessly fucked, humiliated, forced to orgasm and obliged to eat for four days. On the fifth, I found a place in my mind where I was able to block any feeling, where I could completely disconnect from my body, as if it was foreign to me. A place where I felt safe. A place I would never leave again. _

_ On the sixth day, they pushed me into a car that left the cottage. I didn’t move, talk or fight. After a while, the car stopped and my body was thrown into an alley of London’s outskirts. _

_ I could hear a group of people approaching me. I didn’t care. If I was lucky, they’d kill me. _

_ Instead, they put something stinky on me, a shabby blanket. The warmth was comfortable, though the smell was nauseating. _

_ They talked to me. Asked me something. I didn’t respond. They left me alone, though lied down next to me to sleep. _

_ I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I was again in that basement, so I managed to do it only when I was so exhausted I didn’t dream. So I stayed up, hour after hour, day after day, surrounded by a group of homeless that, for any reason, remained at my side. _

_ One night, one of the men of the group elbowed me. _

_ “Do you want to sleep?” he said, showing a syringe in his hand. _

_ I was desperate to forget, so desperate that I took it from the man’s hand. A few minutes later, with the drug running through my veins, I finally achieved to sleep. _

_ But not to forget. I only wanted to erase the memories of Sebastian, of the humiliations, the torture, the raping… but I couldn’t do it. They haunted me. I wondered if I could ever be able to do it. _

_ One day, the self-loathing devouring me, I overdosed. _

_ A homeless called the A & E services, and they called you, Mycroft. _

Sherlock stopped talking, without a tear, without any trace of emotion in his voice. If he dared to feel, he would be destroyed again.

A dark and heavy silence filled the flat.

“You didn’t tell me anything when I went to the hospital” Mycroft’s tone was low and cracked, a bit hurt, but infinitely sad.

“I couldn’t. You were always saying that I was stupid. Sebastian revealed that you were right. I didn’t want to disappoint you more than you already were”.

Mycroft lowered his head.

“I wasn’t…”

Lestrade grabbed Mycroft’s hand affectionately. There will be time for that.

Sherlock closed his eyes, fighting the tears, fighting the fear.

“John, if you want to go, you don’t need to explain anything. Simply go”.

The doctor stood up. He was devastated. He took a couple of steps towards Sherlock and stopped, hesitating. Finally, he approached Sherlock, looking directly at the detective's eyes. And where Sherlock waited to see contempt, rejection and revulsion, he only found love, care and understanding. And fury, but not directed to him. A fury so big that made the doctor tremble.

“I’m not going anywhere”.

Sherlock’s brain took a bit to process information.

“Sherlock, all that happened in that basement, all that shit, it's not your fault”.

Sherlock stood his body tense and nodded weakly.

“I know that”.

“Look at me, Sherlock. It's not your fault”.

Sherlock nodded again, squirming a little by John’s insistence.

“I know”.

“It's not your fault” repeated John, so close to Sherlock as he could. 

“I know” responded again Sherlock, stepping back, trying to stop John’s advance.

“No, no, you don't. It's not your fault”.

“I know” Sherlock was getting nervous, feeling trapped, feeling the darkness devouring him again.

“It's not your fault”.

“All right” Sherlock closed his eyes.

He had never seen John like this, so firm, so insistent. Inside him, the wall that constrained the feelings related to the memories started to break off. But he couldn't allow it. If he did, the intensity and heaviness of the feelings would destroy him.

“It's not your fault. It's not your fault”.

“Don't fuck with me!” he begged John, trying to contain the tears, the sorrow, the shame, the sadness, to keep the Hell's doors closed.

“It's not your fault”.

“Don't fuck with me all right?” he pushed John back, hard, but the doctor remained firmly in his place, looking at him. ”Don't fuck with me, John, not you”.

“It's not your fault...It's not your fault...” John repeated like a mantra.

And then, the box inside his Mind Palace exploded and the Hell overflowed Sherlock, who hid his face between his hands and started sobbing heavily. John embraced him, holding him tight, caressing his hair, muttering tender words, making Sherlock feeling safe and loved between his arms, helping the detective to, finally, start healing his wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final scene of the chapter, when John conforts Sherlock, is based on the movie "Good Will Hunting", in its "It's not your fault" scene. I thnk is one of the most healing and helping for people who had been abused or maltreated , so I decided to adapt it a bit, but respecting the original dialogues and attitudes of the moving.


	6. Glad to see you again, fucktoy

John got into the black car that was waiting for him in front of Speedy’s and greeted Mycroft.

“How is he?” he asked immediately, not bothering to hide his anxiety.

“Better. I finally managed to get him to sleep. He has a lot to process but I think he’ll be fine. Have you found anything?”

“Not much. His name is Sebastian Moran. He was enrolled in a postgraduate course at Sherlock’s University, but he didn’t pass any exam or got any credit. The residence that he stated in the admission sheet was false, he never lived there, it had been checked”.

Mycroft gave him a file containing several photographs of boys around twenty years old, all of them dark-haired, slim and with blue or green eyes.

“While Moran was at the university” he gulped, trying to swallow his anger “there were six reports of disappeared students, as you see, all with a similar complexion as Sherlock “ John nodded, disgusted

“They were never found”.

“So it wasn’t the first time he did that”

"No, and I'm sure if we checked before the university, we'll find more victims, alive or not".  
Mycroft pursed his lips, frustrated. “Nor the MI 5 neither the MI 6 have any clue about Moran’s whereabouts, in Great Britain or in the rest of the world. He vanished in the air thirteen years ago, like a ghost”.

“Anything about the… cottage?” John almost bit the word.

Mycroft grimaced.

“We found the owners’ bodies buried in the land plot of the house. According to the first analysis, they were tortured before being killed”. 

John closed his eyes.

“I have to find him, Mycroft” hissed.

“WE have to find him” the older Holmes pointed out. “Be sure we will get him. That bastard has his days numbered”.

He remained silent for a while.

“How is Greg?

“Still recovering from Sherlock’s hug when we went out from Baker Street yesterday” They both chuckled quietly. “He said he is going to check all the documentation about… “ Mycroft closed his eyes “ rapes that took place fifteen years ago. Maybe we can get something from there”.

Mycroft turned to look at John.

“And how are you?”

“Fine, I’m fine”.

“Sherlock is right. You are a terrible liar”.

“I only need to strangle that bastard with my hands. Then, I’ll be perfect”.

Mycroft looked at the doctor’s eyes.

“You were magnificent yesterday, John. Sherlock is very fortunate in having you at his side”.

The doctor blushed a bit.

“Thanks, Mycroft”. 

“No, I mean it. You truly helped him. Me, instead…” he looked intently through the car window. “I should have protected him. This never should have happened to him”.

“Nobody could prevent it to happen, not even you.”

“Yes, but I’m his older brother, damn it! Always patronizing him…, I was useless even after… that happened. He couldn’t talk to anybody, John, to anybody!”

“Mycroft, what happened to Sherlock was terrible and frightening, but you can’t punish yourself for it. What you can do it’s finding that son of a bitch and bring him to me”. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“You can be really scary when you want to. I’ll keep you informed”.

“Thanks, Mycroft”.

The car stopped and John got out and climbed to the flat. He found a note of Sherlock saying he went for a walk and to buy milk for breakfast.

John smiled sadly, trying to hold back the anger that burned inside him since last night. Finally, unable to do it, he smashed to the floor plates, mugs, glasses, instrumental, and everything breakable he could find in the kitchen. He was about to throw his British army mug when somebody took it from his hand.

Panting, he turned around to see a scared but firm Mr. Hudson.

“What is happening, John? I’m accustomed to Sherlock destroying the flat, but I thought you were the reasonable one”.

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Hudson”.

“Nothing?” the old woman looked at the shattered crockery that covered the floor.

“It’s just, I wasn’t able to read the signs”.

“The signs?”

“I’m a doctor. I should have read them”.

“What happened, John? Did Sherlock do something wrong? She asked, alarmed.

John shook his head.

“No, but I can’t tell you what it is about”.

“Whatever it is, blaming yourself is not worthy. Simply let know Sherlock you are at his side, supporting him. Knowing that he could get through anything. You are his conductor of light, remember? And now come down with me, I’ll prepare tea. But you’ll have to arrange this mess later, young boy”.

The doctor meekly followed Mrs. Hudson to her flat, grateful for not being alone at that moment.  
  
****  
Donovan stormed in Lestrade’s office. The DI quickly closed a file he was studying. The sergeant looked at him, suspiciously.

“What is that?”

“None of your business”.

Sally’s gaze run through all documentation over Greg’s office and raised an eyebrow.

“Why are you looking at cases of fifteen years ago?”

“I told you, none of your business. Sally, I have a lot of work. If it’s not important, leave me alone”.

A beeping sound started in someplace in the office. They both cocked their heads, trying to identify the origin of the sound. Lestrade got up and, following it, stood near the coat rack where his coat was hung.

He searched the pockets, but both were empty. He was about to hang it again, but the beeping sound persisted.

“Look at the inside pockets”.

Lestrade did as Donovan suggested and shook his head. Empty.

“But the sound comes from it” Greg muttered, checking the pockets again. Then he realized there was a hole in one of the pocket’s lining. He run his hand over the bottom of the coat and got a black tiny device, similar to a “beeper”. On the little screen, he could read a message.

“Holy shit!” he screamed, his face blank. He run out of the office, barking orders to all the officers, and in less than five minutes he and Donovan were on Greg’s car, crossing London at full speed, sirens echoing along their path, followed for more than a dozen squad cars.

“At least, you could tell me where the hell we are going,” said Sally through her clenched teeth, her body bouncing from side to side as Greg eluded pedestrians and civil cars.

“You said it, Sally”

“What?”

For all response, Lestrade fixed his sight in the windscreen, muttering “come on, come on”, sounding the horn like a mad man. He took his phone and dialed.  
  
******  
Sherlock got out from TESCO with the milk and started walking, his mind reliving, again and again, John’s words and the balsamic effect they had in his scarred soul. He stored the scene in his Mind Palace, in John’s wing, so he could reproduce it as many times as he wanted.

He was so focused on the memory that he didn’t sense the man approaching him. A second after, the world got black, due to the hit on his head.  
  
*****  
Sherlock groaned in pain, slowly regaining consciousness. He opened his eyes. Everything was blurred and the yellowish light didn’t help to focus his gaze. He tried to massage his head but he couldn’t.

He was tied to a chair.

“Glad to see you again, fucktoy”.

Sherlock’s heart stopped beating at the nickname, at the sound of that voice he tried so hard to forget, at that hated tone he knew so well, mixed of menace and taunt.

Finally, the image got clear.

In front of him, straddle on a chair, arms crossed over the chair back, Sebastian looked at him in the same way lionesses looked at antelopes before choosing their prey: hunger bathed with dead.

Moran smiled coldly. Sherlock was scared. Though he tried to hide it, his eyes were desperately scanning the place, looking for a way out, and he was testing the ropes that restrained his arms to the back of the chair. The more he looked around him, the more terrified he got. Because Sebastian worked hard in reproduce even the last tiny detail of the basement where they raped him. The colours, the lights, the armchair, the table… the only difference, the chairs, but it would quickly change. Sebastian knew very well of the devastating power of memories, which could break a prey quicker than any threat.

Sherlock’s retreated himself in his Mind Palace, his mind racing unbridled, much faster than usual. He run into the memory of John repeating "It's not your fault" over and over again. Listening to it, he managed to breach the fear. He wasn’t the sensitive and lonely twenty years old boy Moran met. What happened broken him, but also made him stronger. He learnt to fend by himself, and not only in a metaphorical way. From that point of view, Sebastian didn’t seem so powerful. Surely he never was, but Sherlock wasn’t able to see it then. The idea helped him to regain some of his courage.

“Time has treated you well” observed Sebastian.

“I can’t say the same to you” retorted Sherlock.

The smack turned Sherlock’s head violently.

“Careful, fucktoy” warned Sebastian. Then he softened his tone “I’m impressed. I always thought you would die in that alley. But look at you, the only consulting detective in the world. And as appetizing as always” he said, caressing one of Sherlock’s cheeks. The detective jerked violently.

Moran croaked, delighted. 

“Fight as much as you want. We both know how this will end. Well, both of us and the welcome committee I have prepared for you. It’s amazing the list of people you’ve fucked during all these years in your work as a detective. They are very keen to return you the favour”.

“Touch me and John Watson will kill you”.

“Ah, your funny doctor. If he were capable of finding this place, he’ll only find Thomas Wood, an honest and innocent farmer” he mocked with a mellifluous voice.

“Did you kill him?”

“Of course, after having a bit of fun with him. The same is going to happen to you”.

“The same you did with your brother, his wife and their sons?”  
Moran frowned, a mask of loath engulfing his face. Then smirked.

“Clever, fucktoy. Very clever. Yes, I pay them a visit. And I’m afraid we had a heated argument” he laughed about his own occurrence.

“Well, no more talk”.

He stood up and approached Sherlock, slowly unbuttoning the detective’s shirt, as Sherlock writhed, trying to avoid the contact of Sebastian's fingers and fighting with the bounds.

“Do you know what the best part of receiving a present is?” he uttered throatily. “Unwrapping it”.

He chuckled, as his hands roamed the detective chest from his stomach to his collarbones, perceiving the muscles flinch under his touch.

He stopped, panting with lust.

“But I mustn’t be selfish. I’ll let my guests unwrap the best part” he said, walking towards the door. “It’s impolite to keep them waiting, don’t you think?”

He put his hand on the knob and Sherlock almost chocked in horror, rotating his wrists. If Sebastian opened that door…

“You were always so easy to trick”.

Moran froze and slowly turned on his heels. He narrowed his eyes, a murderous gaze on them and stepped back near the detective.

“What did you say?” he hissed.

“One word. It only took one word to make you come to light again, to expose yourself”

He grabbed Sherlock’s hair and pulled back, forcing Sherlock to tilt his head back.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Almost. You almost destroyed me”.

Sebastian released his hair, his face a mix of proud and rage.

“I destroyed you”.

“Almost, but no”.

Before Moran could realize what was happening, Sherlock stood, grabbed Moran’s shirt and gave him a header in his nose with all his strength, making Moran howl in pain and bumble back, his hands covering his bleeding nose. Gasping for air, he stuck his tongue out, an animalistic and cruel smile in his face.

“I enjoy when little whores withstand me”.

“Then, you are going to love this”, assured Sherlock, throwing himself towards Sebastian, embedding him in one of the walls. While Moran recovered, the detective, hearing voices coming from the other side of the door, locked the knob with one of the chairs, reinforcing it with the other.

“Do you really think those chairs will keep apart a bunch of men?”

“No, but it’ll give me time”.

“For what?”

“For killing you”.

“Keep on dreaming, fucktoy. When I beat you, I'll fuck you to death". 

Moran approached Sherlock, moving his fists in front of his face to guard him. He had been practicing boxing during all his life, was taller and more corpulent, and the lanky detective wouldn’t be a rival for him. But Sherlock proved to be more nimble than he supposed, and easily dodged several blows, responding to them with hard and quick strikes he found difficult to counteract.

The voices and bangs from behind the door were more audible now, but none of the contenders paid attention to them, immersed in their fight.

Soon both men were gasping for air, bleeding and barely able to keep standing.

The chairs started to give in. Knowing time was running out, Sherlock threw a Muay Thai uppercut elbow to Moran’s chin, which made him fall to the ground. The detective straddled on him and punched Moran’s face repeatedly, charging every blow with all the rage and the pain Sebastian inflicted him, his eyes filled with tears that blurred his vision. He kept on hitting Moran even when the man finally lost consciousness, his head bouncing uncontrollably due to the strength of the hits.  
He was so embedded in his anger that he didn’t hear the knocks, bumps, racing footsteps and yells behind him.

“Sherlock, stop!” Lestrade’s voice reached out to him as if the detective were under the water, muffled and distant, but he didn’t stop. He felt a pair of arms trying to grab his, but he managed to get rid of them and keep on striking Moran.

“He is going to kill him” warned Donovan’s voice.

Lestrade knew she was right. If they weren’t able to stop the detective, he would kill a man in front of more than ten Scotland Yard officers.

“Stop it, love” John’s soft voice penetrated in Sherlock’s brain, his fist in the air, ready for the next blow.

“It’s over. Mycroft and I will take charge of him”.

Sherlock shook his head. 

“This never will be over until I kill him”.

“Killing him would mean showing mercy this shit does not deserve”.

Sherlock rose his head slowly, looking at John’s blue eyes. The doctor nodded, reassuringly and offered his hand. The detective grabbed it and stood painstakingly.

Lestrade expelled the breath he had been holding, as he looked at the thirteen men that, handcuffed and escorted by many other officers, got out of the house and were obliged to get on the squad cars, all of them. John felt Sherlock’s body shiver when he saw them.

“Interesting party you have here,” said the DI.

“Credit is due to him” panted Sherlock gesturing with his head to Moran, who still lied on the floor. “He is also the author of the quadruple murder. The victims were his brother, his brother’s wife and their sons. And the house owner’s body is buried somewhere in the field around the house”.

“You have been busy, haven’t you, Holmes?” asked Anderson, puzzled.

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow to Lestrade, surprised he called him Holmes instead freak. The DI and John smiled.

One of the officers approached Moran to handcuff him, but Mycroft stepped forward.

“I’ll deal with this… thing, thanks officer”.

“We have to take him to Scotland Yard to take a statement” hissed Donovan “You don’t have jurisdiction in this case”.

“My dear sergeant, I have jurisdiction in all the cases I want to. Get him to the helicopter” he ordered to four men in black suits that lifted the blooding knocked out man and carried him to a black van waiting in the entrance.

“I’m fine!” protested Sherlock, waving a hand to stop John examining him.

“No, you are not, he beat you to a pulp” replied the doctor, making the detective sit on one of the chairs and checking his ribs.

“He didn’t…” started the detective and winced in pain.

“And meanwhile let’s talk about the electronic tracking device Lestrade’s found beeping in his coat,”John said, exasperated, probing Sherlock’s jaws. 

“You put it there because you thought I was stupid enough to not finding it until it started beeping, don't you?” asked the DI, upset.

“Well, actually it was because you were the only one with an unpicked pocket so there was no risk you accidentally took out from your coat.

The DI’s ears reddened. Mycroft chuckled. Then narrowed his eyes.

“You did it, didn’t you? You framed him”.

Sherlock threw him a warning look and then looked at the doctor. Mycroft grimaced, realizing his mistake. But it was too late.

“What? Why?” whispered John, horrified.

“I’ll explain everything to you at home” answered Sherlock, briefly gazing at the rest of the Yards surrounding them.

“No, no, no, I won’t give you time to come up with any excuse. I want an explanation, and I want it to be the truth. I can’t believe it! What the hell were you thinking about? How could you put yourself in his line of fire? Can you imagine what would happen if Lestrade would haven’t heard the beeper? Do you realize what it would have supposed to you, to us?"

Sherlock gulped.

“John, please…”

“Now, Sherlock or this is over” he ordered firmly, pointing the two of them.

The detective bit his upper lip.

“I knew Moran left London long time ago and went to South America, so I could, somehow, forget it or apart from it or whatever you can call it. But when I found he was the killer, it meant he was back and… I… I got terrified. I tried to ignore it, to keep on as if nothing had changed, but I couldn’t. The nightmares got back, and I feared to find him every time I turned the corner. I felt as broken as then, as disgusting as then, I started… craving for… drugs again, I even looked for one or two dealers but…, but I didn’t want to lose you, John, I didn’t want to lose what we have, I couldn’t let him destroy me again, to destroy us”.

“Did you…?”

“No! I swear it, John, you can get me tested! But I knew sooner or later…, so I realized the only way to end with all of it was to face him. I didn’t want you to know what… happened for him or for anybody else, so this is why I… mentioned it. Nobody could locate him. Even I was unable to do it. So I had to bring him out and exposing myself was the only to achieve it. You wouldn’t have allowed me to do it".

He looked at John, a mute plead in his eyes

“Do you understand? I had no choice".

“When did you know he was the killer?”

Sherlock lowered his head.

“The first day of the case”

“So, all this time, you weren’t investigating the murder. You were looking for Moran”.

“At first, I only wanted to know if he was back in South America or any other country. If so, I would let it go. I used the entire homeless network, asked all my confidents, contacts, whoever could help me to find him but... I found nothing. So I knew I should have to change my approach”.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him on the first day?”

“I couldn’t John” he whispered “I… I’ve never told anyone... And I hoped not having to…, but it was devouring me, and I was afraid of... losing you”

And then the last days fitted together in John’s mind like a puzzle. The everlasting worried look, the fixation of locking the flat door, the countless pretended trips to S. Barts, more than any other case, the stubborn refusal to have a minimum of sleep, his efforts to skirt any physical contact, except asking John to embrace him, to feel protected…

“Sherlock, you got over all of this by yourself, you haven’t requested anyone’s help, not even mine. But that must stop”.

The detective lowered his head. John sat in the other chair and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands, making Sherlock look at him. 

“It’s time for you to understand that I love you, and that means that I will take care of you, I’ll share your burdens and I’ll help you to get over everything, no matter what it is. And if I were to leave you because you have the disgrace of coming across that… sadist, it would only mean that I am a complete arsehole, a slobbering idiot unable of appreciating all the intelligence, courage, strength and resilience you needed to put this behind you and get to be who you are now, the best man I’ve ever known, the brilliant fool I love madly”.

The detective blinked repeatedly, speechless, trying unsuccessfully to avoid the tears, aware of the people around, all of them deeply moved by John’s words, to judge by the sniffing sounds. 

“Fuck, John!” was all he finally managed to say, snuggling the doctor.

“Don’t blame me. It was you who started doing this in my blog” the doctor chuckled.

“You are the next, Mycroft” teased Greg.

“I would not dream of it”.

“Come on, Mycroft, don’t spoil the moment” berated Donovan, flushing when the British Government turned to frown at her.

The older Holmes coughed and affectionately squeezed Lestrade’s hand.

“Doctor Watson and I have a matter to attend. Gregory, could you bring Sherlock to the hospital?”

“I want to go home” protested the detective.

“Sherlock”…

“Don’t worry, John, we will lead him to A & E” Anderson stepped in, delighted with the idea of annoying a bit the detective, but with a bit of affectionate tone.

“Let’s go, then”.

Both Mycroft and John disappeared and Lestrade helped Sherlock to walk towards the police car.

“Sorry, mate, no cabs around here” he joked.

“Lestrade” Sherlock looked around, assuring the rest couldn’t hear him “Regarding the arrested… and the interrogations, I wouldn’t like anyone to know…, I mean…”

“I will interrogate them personally, and be sure your name won’t appear anyway”. 

“Thanks, Greg”.

“By the way. Why did Moran kill his brother and the rest of the family?”

“He started blackmailing Sebastian for money. I checked the brother’s accounts, and during the last months before the killing, he received an important amount of money every month. Sebastian must be fed up with the racketeering, and came back to fix the problem in his own way.

Lestrade scratched his crown

How could you know Moran was the killer? There remained almost no samples”

“Denatonium benzoate”.

“What?”

“Denatonium benzoate. The bitterest chemical compound known. It’s used in the products for discouraging nail-biting. It was present in several pieces of evidence I found at his brother’s burned house”.

Lestrade frowned.  
“But… do you know how many people in the world bite their nails?

“According to several studies, around thirty percent of the world’s population, around three billion people in the world”.

Greg smiled. Of course, Sherlock knew it. Then frowned again, lost.

“But, that data invalid your theory”

“No, if we pay attention to how many people use that component mixed with honey”.

“But if you sweeten it…”

“It gets useless. Obvious. Only a complete idiot would mix both substances. Sebastian used to bit his nails and put that product on then to avoid doing it. But as he couldn’t stand the flavor, he added honey in the product can”.

“Stupid idiot,” said Lestrade and both chuckled as the DI helped the detective to get on the car. Sherlock rested his head on the head restraint, closed his eyes and sighed, visibly relieved. 

Before they arrived at the hospital, he was fully asleep.


	7. Welcome to your new hotel

Sebastian Moran gasped, suddenly recovering consciousness when John threw a glass of cold water on to his face.

“Welcome to your new hotel,” he said, speaking over the rotor’s sounds, as the helicopter perched on the ground.

Moran looked through the window and gazed at the doctor again, surprised. 

“This is a bloody touristic attraction” he observed when they got off from the helicopter.

Moran was right. They were in Alcatraz Island, in San Francisco Bay, formerly a federal prison, currently a National Park. Some prison officers were waiting for them. None of them paid attention to Moran’s bleeding face, to his broken nose or his limp. They surrounded him and obliged Moran to walk towards the fortress followed by Mycroft and John, ignoring the man’s protest and ranting.

They entered the building and got on an elevator that went down to sublevel ten. The doors opened and they appeared in front of a vault door, that was opened without a minimal sound. After crossing it, they walked down a narrow grey corridor, the sound of distant growls filling the air.

“What are you going to do? Killing me?”

“Welcome to Alcatraz II, a secret maximum security prison, happily ignored by the public opinion, created to confine the most sadistic and mentally deranged sexual predators the world have had the disgrace to know” explained Mycroft in an educational tone.

Moran cracked a smug smile.

They reached a barred door. One of the officers pressed a button that elevated it. Then pushed Moran inside a hexagonal room and the door plunged heavily, with a loud metallic sound.

Sebastian grabbed the door’s bars, looking defiantly at them.

“No matter where you lock me, I will flee, find Sherlock and finish what I started. He’ll never wriggle out of me. Never”.

John clenched his jaw and smiled so icily that made Moran blood ran cold, all smugness banished from his face.

“The convicts imprisoned here haven’t had sexual contact with any human being since the day they arrived here” explained the doctor “but today, they are overexcited, because they got a present.

“A present?” gasped Moran, fear drawn in his face.

“A fucktoy” spat John.

A cracking noise of a heavy door getting opened resounded over the room.

“No! Wait!” Moran shouted, desperately pulling on the door with all his strength, his knuckles whitening, trying to open it. Mycroft and John turned back towards the elevator, as the rumour of dozens of running footsteps reaching the hexagonal room got more and more audible

“You can’t do that! This is illegal! I deserve a fair trial! No! Don’t let me here! Help me! Help…”  
Moran’s voice was muffled by hands that grabbed and dragged him to the depths of the prison. Soon his desperate screams turned into howls of pain and horror.  



	8. Someone decided I deserved a miracle

“Remember me not to fly again in a hypersonic plane” grunted John, three hours later, back in London, getting into the black car.

“I thought you’d enjoy it, being a soldier”.

“I was Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Infantry, remember?

Mycroft chuckled.

“Baker Street” he ordered the driver.

“I have to pick Sherlock up at the hosp…, never mind”. 

He suddenly remembered the disaster in the kitchen after his fit of rage.

“Everything has been cleaned and restored” Mycroft reassured him.

“Everything?” 

“Until the last item. Your landlady can be very fussy, according to my minions”.

John smiled, then got serious.

“Thanks a lot for your help, Mycroft”.

“No, thank you, John. Sherlock is right. You are truly an extraordinary man”.

He sighed.

“John, whatever you or Sherlock need, don’t hesitate to contact me. I know Sherlock won’t do it”.

“Rest assured I will”.

He got out of the car, entered in Baker Street and climbed the stairs. He opened the flat door wondering what he would find there.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, replacing the material for his experiments according to his order. His face was covered with cuts hidden by little plasters, his nose was red and swollen, as well as his right eye, totally shut due to the swelled eyelids and several cuts reddened his lips.

“I thought Lestrade was here with you”.

“He had to go to Scotland Yard for the interrogations”.

John nodded.

“You should have stayed at the hospital” admonished John.

“I preferred waiting for you at home” replied Sherlock, disposing several test tubes.

Finally, he looked at John, questioningly.

“It’s over”.

Sherlock leaned on the table, his eyes closed. John walked next to him.

“Are you fine?”

The detective nodded.

“Give me a minute”.

John went to make two cups of tea, giving Sherlock time to recover himself. Then he took the cups, went to the living room and sat on his armchair, drinking slowly. From time to time he glanced at Sherlock, who kept on the same position. After a while, the detective crossed the room, stood next to John and took the cup from his hand. The doctor looked at him, questioningly.

“I know at the moment I’m not the most gorgeous creature in the world” he joked and John chuckled “but I’d like you to take me to bed now”.

“Are you sure?” said John, slowly standing. 

Sherlock nodded firmly. He needed feeling John, his John, to definitely erase Moran from his memory.

“But you’d have to be gentle. No part of my body doesn’t hurt”.

“I’ll treat you,” said John, softly kissing Sherlock’s lips "like a porcelain doll, sweetheart”.

“Git” the detective muttered, slowly sliding his lips over John’s, opening them to let John’s tongue play with his.

John untied the detective’s dressing gown and slid it down his arms until it fell to the ground. Then lifted Sherlock’s t-shirt, revealing the bandages that covered his ribs and his bruised chest and shoulders. He gently caressed them and Sherlock hissed in pain.

“Sherlock, we can wait…”

“No” panted the detective, grabbing John by the waist and pulling their hips together, their cocks brushing across the fabric, making both of them moan. “I need you. Now”.

The doctor took Sherlock’s hand and both entered the bedroom. The detective unbuttoned John’s shirt, caressing the skin as it was revealed, but John stopped him, gently carrying the other man towards the bed, while Sherlock nibbled John’s lower lip.

John made Sherlock lie on the bed and straddled him, supporting his body with his forearms and feet, being careful not to rest his upper body onto Sherlock’s chest. It was kind of frustrating not be able to join their bodies, but extremely arousing at the same time, feeling their bodies' warmth without being able to touch each other, their hips the only point of contact between them, both already fully hard, panting and moaning softly, when they rubbed their erections.

John’s lips left Sherlock’s and travelled down to his neck, kissing it down towards his collarbone, making Sherlock shiver. Softly, he went down the other man's chest, kissing and licking every bruise he found in his path, as to make them disappear. He reached Sherlock left nipple and circle it with the tongue, his lips encircling it, sucking the pinkish skin, as he rubs the other nipple with the palm of his hand and pinched it with his thumb and index fingers, the detective arching his back below him, his hands grabbing the doctor's biceps, moaning loudly.

“John” Sherlock panted, wriggling under the doctor’s body. He smiled. He was sure he could make Sherlock come by only playing with his sensitive nipples. But not today.

He avoided the bandaged ribs and his tongue landed on the detective’s navel, circling it. Sherlock giggled and pulled John’s hair, trying to separate the wicked tongue from his ticklish spot, but John kept playing with his tongue around and inside Sherlock’s navel, feeling how the detective’s cock got even harder, making his hips thrust, looking for more friction with John’s body.

The doctor pulled down the detective’s pajama pants, and Sherlock’s cock sprang up against his navel, red and twitching, dripping precome. John licked the shaft from the base to the head to finally engulf and suck it, making the detective moan and buck his hips wildly. John held them firmly, licking the gland, as Sherlock cried out, throwing his head back, his eyes tightly shut, his fingers tangled in John’s blonde hair. 

“John, please” the detective groaned, finding hard to make a complete sentence. “I… I need you to fuck me”.

John moaned, the vibration running across Sherlock’s cock. His mouth abandoned it, making Sherlock whine, and he stripped himself, looking at the dark-haired man panting and trembling under him, his only visible eye darkened with lust.

Sherlock heard the click of the bottle of lube and closed his eyes. Slowly, he bent his legs and pressed his feet on the mattress, stifling a wail of pain. John helped him to raise his hips and put a pillow under them, making sure Sherlock was as comfortable as possible.

“John” moaned Sherlock again, until he felt John’s lubed index finger circling his entrance, gently rubbing it before pushing in, John kissing Sherlock as his finger went deeper. Then he slid inside another one and the detective moaned against their kiss.

John raised his body anytime Sherlock arched his back, like in a sex dance, avoiding contact, making the detective burn with desire, to finally slide a third finger inside Sherlock, thrusting them inside and out, brushing against his prostate, the detective’s hips bucking off the bed while he grabbed the doctor's hair almost painfully.

“John, I… can’t, I need” Sherlock’s voice almost a sob.

John smiled, pulled his fingers out of Sherlock, getting a desperate wail from his lips. Slowly, he drew the detective’s tights up to his chest, trying no hurt him and aligned the head of his cock with Sherlock’s entrance, pushing in until he was completely inside.

“Oh… God, yes” the detective moaned, tears running from his eyes across his temples.

“You ok, love?” John asked softly.

Sherlock nodded, pressing John’s body harder against his, as John tenderly rubbed his thumbs on Sherlock’s temples, weeping the tears up. He rolled his hips slowly, thrusting up into Sherlock’s body, feeling the detective clenching his muscles around his hard cock, making him moan and groan, as he sweetly tortured the detective with an endless, slow fuck, bringing him to the edge and pulling back when felt him about to come, as Sherlock arched upward, moaned John’s name out loud, and squirmed below him, finally begging him to pick up the pace, unable to take it anymore.

And John complied. He grabbed the headboard and started thrusting into Sherlock faster and deeper, the detective grunting in pain, moaning in pleasure and arching off the bed, to feel John’s cock even deeper. Then John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock, pumping it at rhythm with his hips, as Sherlock groans, gasps and moans got louder and louder, engulfed by the wave of pleasure that spread along his body, almost unbearable, but so delicious that he wished it lasted forever, making him feel renewed, free, loved and alive until, crying John's name in pure ecstasy, he came hard, holding onto John as he shivered and jerked, twisting and gasping as his muscles protested for the sudden strain.

His entrance vibrated around John’s cock, making the doctors thrusting erratic and, crying Sherlock’s name, rode out his orgasm. Then his arms melted and he collapsed onto Sherlock’s chest. He tried to move next to him, but Sherlock embraced him firmly, avoiding him to move, not wanting to lose contact, struggling to catch his breath, as John panted heavily.

“I love you, John Hamish Watson”

“I love you William Sherlock Scott Holmes. But I should…” he slid next to the detective’s body “your ribs must be complaining”.

“If only were my ribs…” chuckled Sherlock “I should write in your blog about how goddamn amazing is sex with you”.

“Don’t forget about my gorgeous cock…”

“Your talented mouth…”

“My skilled hands…”

“Your gorgeous cock…”

“I’ve already said that”.

“I know, but it so gorgeous that it has to be said twice...”

“My cleverness…”.

“You mean your dirty mind…”

They both giggled and remained silent for a bit, Sherlock resting his head on John's chest, wrapped in the doctor's strong arms, while John softly stroked the detective's hair, giving the detective time to assume everything he went through during the last days.

“John, I'll never be able to thank you enough for what you have done for me these last days…" Sherlock didn't look at him, his eyes closed, relaxing at John's touch" I mean I wouldn’t have been able to confront… him without you, without what you... told me yesterday".

“I didn’t do anything"

”You did so much... You don’t have an idea” Sherlocklowered his tone “The second time I overdosed, when Mycroft found me, I asked him to leave me alone, to let me die. As always, the jerk ignored me. I hated him for it for a long time. But every day since I met you, I’ve been grateful he didn’t leave me in that alley; due to that, now I am here, at your side, feeling the most fortunate man in the world. Because, one day, someone decided I deserved a miracle. And I got you, John Watson”

John looked at him, speechless.

“Mark my words, Sherlock Holmes. Next time you refer to yourself as a high functional psychopath or whatever similar shit, I will make you call Mycroft and tell him what you just told me”.

“That you are a miracle?”

“That you are grateful to him”. 

Sherlock groaned.

“Bully”

John chuckled, relieved. Sherlock would heal, not only his body, but also his soul. With this thought, some Mycroft's words came to his mind: "_My brother has the brain of a philosopher or a mathematician, and yet he elects to be a detective_". 

He looked fondly at Sherlock, who raised his head and looked back at him. John frowned as he saw the detective's eyes sparkling with tears. 

"What is it, love? Something is wrong?". 

Sherlock shook his head.

"It's weird". 

"What is weird?".

Sherlock frowned, controlling the tremor of his lower lip.

"Since I met Sebastian, not a day has gone I didn't hate myself. Until today. I was so used to feeling that way, to feeling worthless, and now... it's odd not to feel like this."

"That is past. It's time for you to see yourself as you truly are". 

"Like a freak? A potential psychopathic killer?" asked Sherlock, mockingly, although John sensed the insecurity within the joke

"I warned you," said John, standing by to pick up the phone. 

"No, no, no, no, it's all right, it's all right," Sherlock surrendered, as John searched for Mycroft's name. 

"So how you truly are?". 

Sherlock shrugged slightly, lowering his gaze, biting the inside of his cheek

"Come on, don't fish for compliments". 

"It sounds better when you say it" replied Sherlock, making perfect puppy-dog eyes even with only one visible eye. 

"You are brilliant and amazing" John smiled, softly kissing Sherlock after every word "you are strong, generous and sensitive. You, Sherlock Holmes, have a huge heart, big brain and are a resilient warrior. And, above all, the best boyfriend I could wish for."

The detective blushed. Though he love John praising him, he found difficult to believe some of the things the doctor said, but he was overhelmed for all the love snd understanding John have about someone so complicated as himself. 

"YOU are the best boyfriend anyone could ever wish for." 

"I know". 

Both laughed. Sherlock rested again his head on John's chest and, protected and safe in his arms, closed his eyes and slept, free at last, from the burden that suffocated him for too long. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos. We really appreciate each of them


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